"Mother," she began, "don't he take care of anybody except Christians?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter; "he takes care of the children of Christians; and so I have faith that he will take care of you; but it is not just so. If you will not come to him now, he may take painful ways to bring you; if you will not trust him now, he may cut away everything else you trust to, till you flee to him for help. But I wish you would take the easier way."
"But can I help my will?" said Rotha again, holding fast to that tough argument. "What can I do?"
"I cannot tell. You had better ask Mr. Digby. I am not able for any more questions just now."
"Mother. I'll bring you your milk," said Rotha, rather glad of a diversion. "Mother, do you think Mr. Digby can answer all sorts of questions?"
"Better than I can."
She brought her mother the glass of milk and the biscuit and sat watching her while she took them. She noticed the thin hands, the exhausted look, the weary attitude, the pale face. What state of things was this? Her mother eating biscuit and oysters got with another person's money; doing no work, or next to none; living in lodgings, but apparently without the prospect of earning the means to pay her rent; too feeble to do much but rest in that spring chair.
"Mother," Rotha began, with a lurking, unrecognized feeling of anxiety—
"I wish you would make haste and get well!"
Mrs. Carpenter was eating biscuit, and made no reply.
"Don't you think you are a little better?"